


A Reasonable Assumption

by JFoxtrotSierra



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JFoxtrotSierra/pseuds/JFoxtrotSierra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas gets the wrong idea.</p>
<p>(Possible trigger warning: mental ill health, allusions to suicide.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reasonable Assumption

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Raven for beta and encouragement.

They're mid-flight when Douglas notices. Martin's sleeve shifts slightly as he reaches for the radio, the coral edge of a plaster showing on his wrist.

“This is Golf Tango India, requesting latest weather report, over.” 

It doesn't seem significant at first, an innocent pink sliver probably covering nothing more than a scratch from Martin's work at Icarus Removals. Though Martin has been rather quiet, Douglas thinks, and somewhat more irritable than usual.

_“Roger, Golf Tango India. Latest weather at 1404 Zulu, wind 15 knots at two-four-zero degrees, visibility 2 kilometres, light rain and unbroken cloud; over.”_

“Roger, control, over and out.” Martin sighs. “So much for getting back early.”

“Mm,” Douglas agrees. “Yes, it does look like it's going to be a longer flight than planned. Shall I tell Carolyn?”

“No, it's all right, I'll do it,” Martin says shortly. “Arthur doesn't seem to be coming back with that coffee, anyway, I'll see where he's got to.”

“How's the removals business?” Douglas asks, casually, when the captain returns. Martin tenses.

“If this is the opening to a witty remark about how I'm not a proper pilot -”

“No,” Douglas assures him, mildly. “Merely a polite enquiry as to the state of your business. Everything OK?”

“Mmm.” Martin hums non-committally. He pauses, then lets out a long breath. “The van failed its MOT last week.”

“Well, that's not altogether surprising,” Douglas comments truthfully, “if a little awkward.”

“A little?!” Martin retorts. “I had to pay £300 to have the head gasket replaced, during which time I had _no_ van for the jobs I had booked, and you call that a _little_ awkward?”

“I'm sorry, Martin.” Douglas's apology is interrupted by the opening of the cabin door, to admit Arthur, grinning cheerily as usual.

“Cheese tray, chaps,” he enthuses. “And since Mum's not here, you even get -” - he pulls back the covering with a flourish - “- the Camembert!”

“Ah, Arthur. Thank you.” Douglas takes the tray, setting it down on the console, with due care for all easily depressed controls.

“No problem. OK, skip?” Martin doesn't respond. “Skip? Everything OK?” Martin's head jerks up.

“I'm fine! Absolutely fine,” he snaps. “Why does everyone keep asking that? I'm fine.”

Arthur looks from Douglas, to Martin, and back again. Douglas shrugs.

“OK,” Arthur says, cautiously. “Er … I'll leave you to it then.”

They share the cheese tray in silence, Douglas unsure, for once, how to approach the subject. When Martin reaches for the gouda, his sleeve rides up again, further this time, exposing the plaster fully. It's a couple of inches below the base of Martin's palm, slicing directly across his wrist, and large. Douglas is aware of a sinking feeling in his stomach as a horrible thought hits him.

If anyone were to ask him, later, why he approached the problem in the way that he did, he would claim that it was a calculated ploy to shock Martin into admission; that his previous efforts to draw Martin out gently had failed, and a change of tactics was called for. In truth, he was so shocked that for once, Douglas Richardson just said the first thing that came into his head.

“What happened to your wrist?”

Martin jerks back, tugging his sleeve down guardedly. “It's nothing,” he claims, eyes darting in a clear admission of guilt.

Douglas reaches out, grasping Martin's wrist firmly. “The hell it's nothing,” he growls. “Martin, did you...?” He can't bring himself to say it. Can't bring himself to believe that Martin would do that, would try to end his own life; worse, he doesn't _want_ to believe that he'd been so blind, so completely unaware.

Martin yanks his wrist out of Douglas's grip, irritated. “Douglas, what – what are you doing? Did I _what_?”

Douglas stares at his wrist, eyebrow raised. “Martin...?”

“It's nothing, Douglas,” Martin huffs, turning back to the console. He pauses, brain finally registering the real concern in Douglas's voice. “It's just a scratch,” he relents. “OK? Can we stop this interrogation now?” He turns and frowns at Douglas. “Douglas?”

Douglas looks ... if Martin didn't know him better, he'd say Douglas looks _afraid_. But why...? _Oh_. Martin flushes. “You think I tried to -” Martin hesitates, “to h-hurt myself?”

Douglas nods, eyes wary. “Didn't you?”

“No!” Martin protests, taken aback. “No, no, no no no. No!”

“I'm glad we've cleared that up,” Douglas observes drily, the ghost of a smile showing for a second. “Then what?” he asks, seriously. “Look at it from my point of view, Martin. You're quieter than usual, withdrawn. Your _paying_ job isn't going well, you live in a house of students ten years younger than you, and let's face it, working at MJN – even as captain - isn't exactly the job you dreamed of. And now you turn up with an enormous plaster on your wrist, right across your radial artery … Martin, what _should_ I think?”

“Thank you, I feel a lot better about my life now,” Martin notes sharply. He sighs. “Look, really, Douglas, it was nothing. If you must know, I was doing some gardening to pay for the van repairs, and I sliced my wrist with the secateurs.”

“Really?” Douglas raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

“Yes, really!' Martin sighs again, burying his face in his hands. “I- I know it sounds ridiculous, and implausible, but honestly I really am that clumsy.” He looks up at the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder, meeting Douglas's eyes reluctantly. Douglas fixes Martin's eyes with his own for a long moment, then nods, apparently satisfied. He squeezes Martin's shoulder before pulling away.

“I'm sorry,” Douglas says. “I suppose I did presume, rather. I shouldn't jump to conclusions.” Martin nods, and they fly in silence for a few minutes.

When Martin speaks again, it's so quietly Douglas barely hears him. “Thank you.” Douglas blinks, thrown off balance. “For caring,” Martin clarifies. “Thanks.”

“It's nothing,” Douglas demurs. Another few moments silence pass, and then, “Martin?” Martin looks at Douglas. “ _Are_ you OK?”

Martin stills, unspeaking, and Douglas wonders if he's overstepped the boundaries of their friendship. Then Martin sighs, rubbing his forehead as if in pain. “No,” he admits, reluctantly. “No, I suppose not. I mean, it's not – it's not _that_ bad.” He shoots Douglas an ambiguous look. “It's getting better? But it's – it's not good...” He sighs, again. “I'm sorry, you don't want to know -”

“Martin,” Douglas silences him. “I _do_.” Martin looks sceptical. “Martin, I know I'm not exactly the most approachable of friends, but I hope you know that, well... Dammit, Martin, if you ever want to talk, or just some company – you know where to find me.”

Martin glances at Douglas with eyes suspiciously bright, and hands clenched tightly on the yoke. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Douglas reaches over to brush Martin's shoulder again. “Any time,” he says. “Promise me, Martin?” Martin nods, shakily. “OK. How about a round of `Christopher Biggins'?”

“Christopher Biggins?” Martin rubs his eyes, looking at Douglas in puzzlement.

“Ah, sir has never experienced the delights of Christopher Biggins,” Douglas says, gleefully. “Sir is in for a treat!”

The game keeps them occupied for the rest of the flight, and when they finally stand to leave the flight deck at Fitton, Douglas pauses, holding Martin's gaze with his own for a moment.

“ _Any_ time, Martin,” he repeats. And Martin smiles.


End file.
